Reunion
by Pilleriin
Summary: Reunions can be planned or unexpected, and they may turn out bad... Or better than one could have ever imagined...


**Reunion.**

Unwilling to accept being forced to just observe the culmination point of the case he's put so much effort and time in, Spence stubbornly makes the most of the meagre means of communication at his disposal.

Boyd doesn't seem to appreciate such contribution at all. He casts annoyed glances in the direction of the one-way mirror, and when yet another comment comes from the DI, takes his earpiece away altogether.

Grace almost wishes she'd done the same, as the unexpurgated reaction from the adjacent room reaches her ear.

Spence's firm conviction of Dawson's guilt and the unconcealed animosity rising from this, plus his quite justified standpoint that Boyd should keep the hell away from the case due to the undeniable conflict of interests, were the reasons she categorically insisted on being in the interview room herself. To let those three here together might have been truly hazardous. She really needs to talk to her younger colleague later. In peace and quiet, allowing him to explain his opinion, and trying to mitigate the conflict. She might get a chance to do this pretty soon, that of course if Spence's promise to give her a lift tonight still holds.

Right now they all need to concentrate on the complicated situation at hand.

No reason to blame it all on Boyd, he did his best to avoid things getting to this. Having an officer as high-ranking as DSI Cavendish now working with the unit, he could afford to step aside and let Sarah and Spence deal with the re-opened two-decades-old multiple murder case, considered to be mob-related in the light of new evidence. There was enough reason to suspect that former DS Mike Dawson, Boyd's best mate in Hendon days, didn't happen to be the first to arrive the crime scene years ago by mere coincidence. Too many gaps and controversies in the initial investigation. But all their pursuits to find out the truth reached dead end, and it was highly unlikely that now retired Mike Dawson would voluntarily reveal anything new. All signs were, Sarah Cavendish would suggest sending the case back to the archives after returning from her mysterious duty assignment on Monday.

Maybe Dawson had some inside information about her absence, anyway he unexpectedly appeared at the station an hour ago, declaring he wanted to come clear, he's only term being that Peter Boyd would lead the interview.

The leader of the CCU was facing a dilemma: whether to refuse, risking that Dawson changes his mind altogether and the case remains unsolved, or to go for it, riling up the upper echelons, not to mention Sarah Cavendish and Spence.

He chose the latter of course, but Grace can't quite remember Boyd ever going so meticulously by the book in the interview room.  
Not a single excessive word or gesture that could be interpreted as being partial or giving Dawson any kind of special treatment. Everything strictly done to ensure the legitimacy of Dawson's confession, so all material can be used in court. There's still no doubt what close and critical attention this case is going to receive from the upper echelons.

The gloomy-faced and grey-haired man across the metal table is just as well aware of the procedure and rules, well enough to not even require a solicitor by his side. He's come here determined to finally clear his conscience, and that he does, in his own words and pace. Bit by bit the story unfolds, how a young under-paid family-man, struggling with loans and mortgage, received an offer he failed to resist, how he fixed the evidence to avert the blame from the trigger-happy gang-leader, how the blood-money was transferred. All in detail, knowing well what's expected from him.

When there's nothing left to add, Boyd switches off the recording equipment, and oppressive silence fells upon the little room.

Grace doesn't recall ever feeling so uncomfortable in the interview room. Old friends, even the ones grown apart due to very different paths of career and personal life, should never meet like this, over lukewarm tea served in mugs carrying the Met's logo. It's so sad and wrong, rather a conflict of emotions than conflict of interests.

Boyd gets up, and she wonders if he's really going to walk away just like that. He isn't. He takes a step towards Dawson, and looking him deep in the eye, just places his hand on the man's shoulder.

Grace momentarily realises, why Mike Dawson seemed familiar to her somehow, despite she had no recollection of ever meeting the man. She did see him at Luke's funeral, just as she saw a very similar wordless communication between Boyd and him. Only on that grim day at the funeral parlour it was Dawson to stand by Boyd's side and lay a supportive hand on his shoulder, without any lame words of comfort or for-the-sake-of-appearances hugs.

Whatever the message, it's been conveyed and received. One of them remains sitting, the other exits the interview room and starts giving orders to his DI.

Grace leaves the room as well. She gives a placating smile to Spence, who's left to grumpily deal with the following necessary technicalities. Boyd's already covering the distance to the CCU headquarters in long hasty steps, clearly trying to escape her. It takes some effort, but she catches him.

A uniformed PC is waiting behind his office door. ''Rusty!'' Boyd instantly recognizes him.

The family resemblance with Mike Dawson is quite remarkable, so there's no question about the young policeman's identity for Grace either.

''I wanted to have a word with you, _Detective Superintendent_ Boyd,'' Dawson-junior presses out, disdainfully stressing the rank.

Boyd clearly doesn't expect to be addressed in such a formal way by someone who most likely used to call him 'uncle Peter' not that long ago.

''I can only imagine how hard it all must be for you,'' he starts ruefully, ''I can't be of much help, but if there's anything...''

''Haven't you done enough already?! '' the young man cuts in, angry and sarcastic. ''It's _your_ bloody unit, _your_ damned call... couldn't you just turn a blind eye and leave it alone?! One stupid ancient case that no-one gave a damned about any more... Was it really worth this - ruining my father's life and throwing two decades of exemplary service down the toilet?!'' His voice rises with each bitter accusation. Either this or uncontrollable tears, so it seems.

It's strange to witness someone daring to attack Peter Boyd like that, furthermore that he endures it with incredible patience.

''What's it like to send an old friend behind bars?! Is it just as easy as letting them lock up Luke without lifting a finger to help him?!'', Rusty Dawson spits the final blast of venom and fury in Boyd's face before turning around abruptly, and all-but running from the scene.

Boyd stands frozen for a minute, clenching teeth to control the tell-tale twitch of his face, and retreats to his office.

She allows him a few minutes of privacy.

The default ''I'm fine'' comes the moment she opens the door.  
For any random colleague he might actually seem fine, seated calmly at his desk, expression impenetrable as usual.

Grace doesn't fall for such façade, nor does she miss the way his eyes stare in the distance, without really seeing anything, betraying the true extent of inner turmoil.  
She's not sure which is worse, seeing Boyd so devastated, or accepting that she can't help him, no matter how much she wishes it.

She first experienced this right after the tragedy with Mel. They were still romantically involved - the best kept secret in the history of the Met – so it would have been most natural to share the grief and help each other overcome the loss. Boyd didn't think so, not realising that by choosing to bear the cross alone he also left her without the much-needed support and comfort.  
Such insurmountable discord between them started to affect and overshadow all the good things, causing the untimely end of their promisingly started love affair.

The same pattern of determinedly excluding her still kept repeating on every tragic occasion, when he got the news about Luke, after Stella's unfortunate death.

Without cherishing much hope to get through to him, Grace makes a faint attempt to offer support.

''For what it's worth... I don't think it was fair or considerate of Mike Dawson to put you in such a difficult position.''

Boyd shakes his head.  
''I owed it to Mike. For all those countless times he was there for me and listened my monologue half a bloody night when I had discovered Mary was having an affair and our marriage fell apart, or whenever I was at my wits end what to do about Luke. The least I could do in return was to help him through it all today.''

''That's not exactly comparable, is it? Problematic family life is one thing, we're talking about criminal offence and misconduct of authority in his case...''

''So you think I ought to condemn him?'', Boyd's eyes flash, ''You know I can't, Grace, and you know why. I carried the envelope with Eddie Vine's dirty money in my pocket for days, the chance I would have made the same choice Mike did was very real. And perhaps...'', he closes his eyes for a moment and rubs his temples, trying to organize the controversial thoughts racing through his head, and most unexpected confession from a man so well-known for his zero tolerance for dirty cops follows,''Perhaps I should have taken the money, might still have my family.''

''And Luke might have been in Rusty Dawson's shoes today,'' she concludes. An harsh thing to say, but necessary for putting things into perspective.

The phone rings, and he reaches to answer it, seemingly hoping this mundane distraction to shatter the gloom.

The message delivered by the acerbic female voice in the other end is a short one.

The loud bang with which the receiver lands on the desk and the expletive falling from Boyd's lips make Grace offer, ''Maureen Smith?''

He nods grimly. ''She'll honour our team meeting tomorrow morning with her presence. Apparently she's convinced that a showcase slapping of my fingers will be good for team morale.'' He makes a sarcastic grimace. ''At least Spence should be pleased.''

There's a brief knock on the door, and the still surly-faced DI marches in with some document that evidently needs Boyd's immediate attention.

Grace contemplates the pair of them, as Boyd reaches for his reading-glasses, and the habitual fierce argument over some technical detail breaks out instantly.  
A textbook case indeed. The roots of Spence's distrust and defiance towards any figure of authority clearly stem from his traumatic childhood experience, when the unexplainable disappearance of his father left him feeling betrayed and neglected.  
And as for Boyd... She doubts if he'll ever realise that the surrogate son he's got in Spence follows in his footsteps more closely than his own flesh and blood ever might have done.

''Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you!'', Spence turns to her, having finally obtained the signature he came for. ''Just give me half an hour to finish this,'' he waves the file in his hand, ''and then we can go.''

Boyd frowns in confusion, trying to figure out what business his DI and psychological profiler could possibly have together. Grace has mentioned her evening engagements several times, but the recent events seem to have swept everything from his memory.  
''That reunion thing...'', something starts to surface, ''...it was tonight?!''

She nods. ''The car service has grown really fond of my poor old rattletrap, not willing to return it to me before next week, that's why I'm relying on Spence to take me there in time. Last year I was in the hospital and couldn't go, so I'm looking really forward to see my old friends again.''

''Of course,'' Boyd nods in understanding, ''you do deserve to have some fun after all you've been through. Just make sure...'', he casts her a sly over-the glasses look, ''to keep out of trouble!''

''There'll be eight women of my age, having dinner and catching up on good old times,'' she returns with a roll of her eyes, ''What kind of _trouble_ we might possibly attract?!''

''Reunions can be tricky, you know,'' he smirks, ''the one's I've attended all started out as nice and decent. You wouldn't believe me, if I told you how some of them ended!'' His fleeting grin fades the moment he realises that one man, who certainly took part in those memorable adventures, won't be expected to join the fellow Hendon-boys ever again after today.

"If I promise to behave well, will you promise to go home early and get some rest tonight?'', she bargains, meaning it a lot more seriously than actually letting it sound.

''I won't stay any longer than strictly necessary,'' is the evasive response. ''Enjoy your evening!''

Spence is still busy, so it leaves Grace enough time to get ready. She closes the blinders of her office and changes her sweater for the more festive blouse she brought along just in case this morning. Wise idea in hindsight, she wouldn't have time to go and change clothes any more. The thought that sooner or later she may end up like Boyd, who seems to have enough spare clothes in his locker to allow him get by without going home for a fortnight, makes her chuckle to herself. A fresh coat of lipstick, a touch of hairspray, and she considers herself quite prepared to meet the critical eye of her friends by the time Spence has finished his paperwork.

* * *

There are photographs scattered all around the half-empty coffee cups and plates with last crumbles of Napoleon cake. Most of them depict girls in flower-patterned mini-dresses and those ridiculous platform shoes that might have easily proven fatal on the slippery stairs of their old university building.  
These girls used to share literally everything back then, starting with lipsticks and hair-clips, up to their deepest secrets and dreams. The group of middle aged women around the table tonight hasn't got much in common any more.

It's getting late and Grace plans to leave pretty soon. Otherwise she won't be able to disguise her disappointment over the way the evening has turned out much longer.  
It has to be just her feeling this way though, for judging by the cheerful laughter and lively chatter, everybody else seems to enjoy the evening very much.  
It probably wasn't a good idea to come here after a tiresome day at work. Or maybe she just cherished an unrealistic hope that seeing the faces from her youth would bring those happy days back by magic.

The conversation has reached from recollections to present day. It is of course nice to hear about the achievements of Susan's prodigal grand-kids, or laugh at the antics of Ann's no-good husband, whom she won't divorce nevertheless, but Grace has heard it all before.

Ironically enough, she herself might have a lot to tell, having not revealed others the true reason for her absence last year. She honestly intended to share that frightening and warning experience, but reconsidered her plan. It somehow didn't feel appropriate to spoil the easy atmosphere with bringing in such grim issues. Having the role model of keeping things to oneself by her side every day - no wonder the bad trait sticks.

She just sits and waits for a suitable moment to get up and excuse herself with the need to get up very early tomorrow, when she suddenly realises that all eyes have turned in her direction. It's an embarrassing situation really, for she truly hasn't got a clue what the topic of past couple of minutes might have been. But it's not her they all stare at, something right behind her seems to have caught their attention. Or _someone_...

Her nose catches the spicy scent of that well-known cologne even before she can turn around.

''I'm not too early, am I? I remember you saying ten o'clock...''  
The familiar baritone, but sounding pleasantly different, without that authoritative edge it has at work. The customary morose scowl is replaced with a candid smile, and the imposing figure and instant self-assertion - the same features that otherwise intimidate people - just add on to the man's irrefutable good looks. No wonder everybody seems to have fallen under his charm instantly.

''Sorry, should have introduced myself first...'', Boyd treats Grace's open-mouthed companions with the bedazzling grin that never fails to have a strong effect on opposite sex. ''I'm Peter. Perhaps Grace has mentioned me...''

She has. Several times tonight and countless times during previous gatherings, but definitely not referring to him by his Christian name, so nobody makes the connection.

Not entirely sure what on earth he's planning, but as it's still a welcome opportunity to escape here, she decides to play along.

''It's _that_ late already!?'', she exclaims, feigning genuine surprise, and continues regretfully, ''Such a shame, but I really have to leave you now. I've got an important meeting tomorrow morning.''

''I'll get your coat,'' Boyd offers helpfully. The way he unmistakably picks the right one from the overloaded rack in the corner only enhances the impression of their relationship's nature, he's trying to create for some mysterious reason.

Grace uses the moment to exchange hasty farewells. Fortunately they're all too baffled to ask any questions right away, but she won't escape the prying phone calls in next few days, that's certain. She's not going to trouble her head with this tonight.

Boyd returns with the coat, gallantly helping her into it, as suits his self-imposed escort service role. But the way his hand stays around her shoulders is far too much already, so bloody obvious that she truly fears her friends will blame her for staging such pathetic performance.

The fear of becoming a laughing stock seems to be ungrounded though, there's amazement and... genuine envy on all the faces.

They pass the huge mirror in the vestibule on their way out, and Grace catches a quick peek of their reflection. She can't deny - just like a few good years ago, they've still got the ability to attract glances. They're both older, a bit more dignified, and still looking good together. It may of course just be the unique charm Boyd's so generously endowed with, part of which automatically expands on anyone in his close proximity. She doesn't hurry to shake the proprietary arm off her shoulders.

''OK, _Peter_ , how about enlightening me now what was this all about?'' she inquires when they reach his car.

''For your information,'' he grins,''my first thought was to march in there, handcuff you and read the rights out loud. Would you have preferred that?''

She gives him a withering look, demanding sternly, ''The purpose of this spectacle being...?''

''Just a rescue operation,'' he shrugs, innocence himself.

''Really?'', she snaps tetchily, ''What exactly gave you the idea I needed _rescuing_ from the pleasant company of my friends?''

''Oh, come on, you clearly weren't enjoying that 'pleasant' company for quite a while already...'', he starts, but corrects his arrogant tone quickly, ''Look, I just happened to pass here on my way home, and it seemed reasonable to stop and ask whether you needed a lift home. I walked around a bit before coming in and saw you all through those large windows. Even I could interpret that much body language to realise you were bored to death and desperately wanted to get away from those chatter-boxes.''

''Still haven't got rid of that nasty stalking habit?'' she bites back rather thoughtlessly, forgetting that Boyd can be very touchy about certain parts of his past.

Luckily he takes it well this time, agreeing with a good-humoured, ''Apparently so.''

He starts the engine, and having manoeuvred out of the parking lot, casts a sympathetic look at her.  
''I'm very sorry your evening didn't turn out the way you hoped.''

''It wasn't that bad actually,'' Grace forces a bleak smile on her face, ''it was nice to see all the girls again and learn that everybody's doing well.''

Their journey passes in complete, but in no way depressive silence. It surprises her actually, how someone as volatile as Boyd could provide such soothing and calming company at times.

''A cup of coffee?'', she offers out of politeness, as they reach her house.

''OK,'' Boyd agrees, contrary to her expectations, and parks the car on her driveway.  
Must be one of the rare occasions when companionable silence isn't enough for him.

''Make yourself at home'', Grace indicates towards her living room after they've discarded their coats. ''I'll put the kettle on right away''

''Actually.. I don't really want that coffee.''

She smiles indulgently. ''That's OK. We can sit and talk just the same.''

''Does it always have to be this bloody talking?!'', comes petulantly.

She looks at him in confusion. ''Why are you here then?''

He doesn't answer, just takes a step closer and kisses her.  
That's self-explanatory of course, but catches Grace totally unprepared. She considered this chapter between them terminally closed since Boyd's American-tour.

She places her hand against his chest, pushing him away gently.  
''I think you'd better leave now,'' quietly, but resolutely, keeping her glance down to avoid falling in the perilous trap of those mesmerising dark eyes.

''Why?'' he demands irritably.

''You know why, Boyd... '', she sighs, her fingers smoothing the imaginary crease out of his suit lapel, ''We've tried it, it didn't work. I am your friend, so if you need, I'll willingly keep you company and hear you out tonight. But I'm not going to sleep with you to enable you some brief relief and oblivion. I just can't do this any more.''  
She pauses, trying her best to repress the still-not-overcome pique, but fails, and the stinging ''You have to wait for another Sarah to come along,'' escapes her lips.

''One just did, not my type unfortunately!'' he retorts, and she can't help snorting, realising the ridiculous ambiguity of what she just said.

Boyd's hands land on her shoulders, in no way rough, but forcefully enough to make her re-establish eye-contact.  
''You've never been ''brief relief and oblivion'' to me, Grace! And never will be!''

She hears the same desperate determination in Boyd's voice she remembers from the nightmarish moments he was holding the poison-filled syringe against his neck, offering his life for hers to Lynda Cummings.

''It's not too late for us, is it Grace?!'' This is a plea, not stubborn persistence any more.

A plea her heart won't allow to decline. Deep down she's never doubted in him, regardless everything that's gone wrong between them. She just needs a little bit more time...

Her hand reaches to stroke his cheek affectionately, as she gives him the most reassuring smile she's capable of.  
''It's late _tonight_ Peter _._ We've both had a tough day and need to rest. We shall come back to this at some more suitable moment...''

''For Christ's sake Grace!'', Boyd protests in genuine exasperation, ''Don't do that bloody shrink thing to me now!''

''What 'shrink thing' ?'', she frowns, not sure what exactly she's accused of.

''Mercilessly announcing that the time is up when I'm finally ready to make the decisive step forward,'' he complains, pouting his lips.

It's impossible to remain serious at this.  
''You poor thing, what evil representatives of the profession you must have come across in your life! '', Grace bursts into laughter.  
''But we've got the 8 o'clock meeting with Maureen Smith...'' Last half-hearted attempt to stop the unstoppable.

''I'm all in favour of going to bed straight away!''  
That's the Peter Boyd she's always loved - audacious, infuriating and irresistible all at once.  
The naughty-boy-grin appears on his face to top it all, and he adds slyly, ''I hope you've got a good alarm clock.''

That reminds her something long-forgotten.  
''Come, I'll show you,'' she encourages him to follow her up the stairs, which he most willingly does.

Grace starts hunting through the chest of drawers in the corner of her bedroom, and Boyd watches her, surprised and amused.

''Ah, there it is!'', she declares triumphantly, producing an old-fashioned key-wind alarm clock from the bottom drawer. It feels almost like meeting an old friend again, for this clock did faithfully serve her ever since college years, until it got undeservedly replaced with beeping electronic substitutes, lacking character and quality.

A broad smile of recognition spreads across Boyd's face.

''I used to have one exactly like that back in the day! Made hell of a noise, as I can remember and found it's sad end against the concrete wall of my lousy rental flat on ...'', he smirks wryly, ''...well, on _unclear_ circumstances. You're sure this one still works?''

Grace turns the key at the back of the clock a couple of times, and a moment later the ear-splitting jingle fills the bedroom, making them both wince.

''This will wake up the dead, if needed,'' Boyd chuckles.

''Six o'clock sharp tomorrow, then we should be able to get to work in good time!''  
She sets the alarm, winds the clock up properly and places it on the bedside table, giving him a warning scowl, ''Don't you dare even think about hauling my good old clock around! Some day it'll be worth a fortune!''

Perhaps she's unknowingly had a secret time machine hidden in her drawer, and now that it's set to work again, a few decades seem to have mysteriously vanished. The man and woman who hastily discard their clothes while giggling shamelessly, and jump between sheets, whispering naughty promises to each other, couldn't possibly be the tired and weary ones that walked through the front door barely half an hour ago.

It all comes back in no time– the little wicked know-how of who-likes-what, which touches and caresses work best respectively.  
Almost as if they'd waken up in the same bedroom this very morning. The flame is very much alive, and neither holds anything back until they've both reached that one and only blissful goal.

Drifting to sleep in his embrace, Grace suddenly remembers how the fulfilled morning-after smile used to linger on Boyd's face as a result of such fiery nights. She feels almost malicious joy at the thought that Maureen Smith will find him exactly like that, coming to perform the foretold finger-slapping tomorrow morning.


End file.
